Miss Charity's Case by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

day, after all. He tossed the page onto his desk and strode out, whistling a jaunty tune.
    Howell bent to peer at the page, curious what had brought on the change of heart in the captain. Laboring to read the scratchy, thin letters, he mumbled, “Lady Eloise Anthony requests that you join her in an evening of dining and music to welcome her grandnieces Miss Charity Stuart and Miss Joyce Stuart to Town.”

Five
    Charity stood in her bedchamber and listened to the tall case clock in the hallway chime the hour. The soirée would begin in less than an hour.
    Joyce had proven to be as good as her smile. Lady Eloise now insisted—as if it were her own idea—that Charity be launched into society along with her younger sister. No protests from Charity had changed either woman’s mind.
    Lady Eloise had been top-lofty before, but she seemed always out of curl now. Charity’s hair was too red, her eyes too gray, her skin too warm with color. She stood too straight, and appeared haughty, or she slouched. How was she going to impress anyone if they saw her looking as if she were cramped? Each lesson on how to address guests brought animadversions on the quality of Charity’s husky voice which was not the light song of her sister’s.
    As Charity waited for Hélène to close up the green silk gown that had been completed in bang-up time by the seamstresses at Madame Purviance’s shop, she toyed with a pair of evening gloves of the finest kid—her very first pair—and avoided looking in the glass. That elegant woman with her hair piled in curls about her head could not be Mr. Stuart’s oldest.
    â€œ Très belle,” announced the abigail, stepping back. “The color is perfect for you.” She frowned. “But you look unhappy. You should be joyous tonight.”
    â€œI shall be glad when Joyce is settled, and I can spend my evenings quietly once again.”
    â€œ Mademoiselle Charity, you must consider seeking a match for yourself.”
    She laughed as she drew on her silk slippers which matched the ribbons in her gown. “I shall consider it, but how can I watch over Joyce if I marry?”
    â€œYou don’t need to worry about your sister. She’s been aglow all week.”
    â€œBecause she’s entangled me into being a part of this.”
    The abigail shook her head as she set Charity’s nightdress on the bed. “She appears to be a young woman in love.”
    â€œWith whom?”
    Hélène gave a very Gallic shrug. “That is the part that continues to baffle me.”
    â€œMost likely she is enamored with the splendid wardrobe Lady Eloise has had made for her.”
    â€œI hope you are right.” With a chuckle, the abigail went into the dressing room.
    Charity had promised to wait for Joyce, so they could descend the stairs to undergo Lady Eloise’s inspection together. Sitting on the longue chair by the window, she peeked out. No carriages were drawing close to the door yet.
    Who could have guessed Miss Charity Stuart would ever be in a grand house on Grosvenor Square waiting to greet guests at a fancy party? Mama once had lived this life, but she had turned her back on it for the love of a man many considered beneath her. Dear Papa.
    Charity reached beneath the chair for the battered case she had brought with her. Lady Eloise would be horrified if she learned it had not been tossed out.
    Opening it, Charity lifted out a stack of letters and stroked the ribbon holding them together. She could not bear to throw away the love letters her parents had exchanged. Looking toward her reflection in the cheval glass, she sighed. Papa had been dead for such a short time, and she wore no sign of mourning. She pulled the black velvet ribbon off the stack of letters and tied it around her right wrist. Lady Eloise might be distressed, but Charity would not pretend her father had never existed.
    Knuckles rapped on the door.